


Letter to a Dead Man

by hungrydean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Season/Series 14 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-08-05 09:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16365533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungrydean/pseuds/hungrydean
Summary: Castiel finds a letter, written by Dean when Castiel was dead.





	Letter to a Dead Man

Cas didn’t mean to find an envelope with him his name on it. He never meant to see his own name in the handwriting Dean used when he tried. All he wanted was to just look at Dean’s miscellany, the few remains that kept his disappearance painfully fresh and calamitously evident.

Cas wanted to just stand there, run his fingers over Dean’s excessive amount of similar looking flannels, maybe hold one if he was sure Sam wasn’t going to walk in—breathe in the last bit of Dean that had worked its way into the fabric after all those years. Cas knew how destructive it was to keep reminding himself of Dean, every single fragment. 

But then again, there was barely anything of him left to destroy.

Cas has wandered off to the desk in the corner of the room, remembering how Dean would sit there, concentrating, back arched in a way Cas knew would hurt later. He can clearly recall the way Dean scratched his chin and rubbed his neck as he sat in that exact chair—and he sits down in it, too. The chair is ice cold from days of not being used. The room should feel empty and cold, but there is too much _Dean_ that it is impossible for Cas to feel uncomfortable. 

The bed is made messily, with an extra pillow Dean nicked from the spare bedroom. There’s a duffle bag in the corner, half open, with Dean’s clothes and some other belongings. John’s journal is on the nightstand—for some reason Sam keeps putting it back there. On the desk in front of Cas, several things lie scattered across each other. Cas picks up the pieces of paper and fingers through them. He reaches forward and turns on the desk lamp. 

They’re all notes, messy and quick with a lot of crossed through words and question marks. There are doodles on the edges that could’ve been pretty if they weren’t so smudged. Cas puts the papers in a pile and places it on the side of the desk.

There are a few other things lying around, but Cas tries the desk drawer, but it’s stiff. He wiggles at it and it shoots open so several things fall onto Cas’ lap and on the floor.

He wants to pick up everything when he notices a picture of Dean in the drawer. It’s Dean and Sam, smiling at the camera. They’re so young—Cas realizes it must be from before he met them. The edges are rough and the color has faded, but Dean clearly loves the picture. Cas turns it around.

_I found this while cleaning. Thought you might want it. You are and will always be the same sweet boys to me. Remember that._

_Lots of love,_

_Ellen._

Cas swallows and gently places the picture on the desk. He feels like he’s intruding but now the drawer is on his lap, he cannot stop himself. There are mostly things that were obviously special to Dean. A picture of Mary, a small notebook with a children’s handwriting, filled with primary school exercises. _Sam_ , it says on the front, and in a different pen _my_ behind it. Under that, the same children’s handwriting scribbled _that’s not my name dean!_ Cas can’t help but smile and places it on the desk as well.

And then, in between the mess, he sees his own face. He pulls out the picture—it’s one of him and Dean, one that Sam took a few years ago when they’d been sightseeing after a hunt. Cas’ heart skips a beat because though he knew the picture was taken, he never saw it—Dean always told him his eyes were closed and it looked ridiculous.

Dean’s eyes weren’t closed at all. Cas himself is looking at the camera, smiling a rare smile, but Dean is looking at Cas, and he’s grinning widely with dimples in his cheeks and a look in his eyes that Cas can’t understand, or can’t believe, or both.

And then, out of the corner of his eyes, he sees it. A small, white envelope, with his name on it. Cas. It’s unmistakably Dean’s handwriting. His fingers are shaking as he takes the letter and the picture, shoves the drawer back into the desk and sits closer. It takes him a moment to open the envelope, afraid to ruin it. He can hear his own irregular breath as he unfolds the papers inside.

_Dear Cas,_

_You’re dead._

_Yeah, that’s right. You’re dead and I’m writing you a letter. I don’t really know what else to do. Burning your body wasn’t okay. It didn’t feel okay. Because wherever you went, you’d always come back, and we’d always be together at some point, and I’d always be able to pray to you and know you’d listen. But then I was with you when you died, and I lift you from the dirt, into the house and put you on the table, covered you with a sheet we found._

_I tried so hard not to hurt you._

_I made sure you didn’t bump into anything as I carried you inside. I made sure your head wouldn’t hit the table when I laid you down. I made sure the sheet covered your entire body so no bugs would get to you before we could return._

_And then when we got back—I burned you._

_I wish I didn’t have to._

_First, I wrapped you. Part of me had wanted to buy a prettier cloth, something you would’ve loved, and get you a bouquet or a wreath, but there was no time. So the curtains it was. I hope that’s okay with you. Part of me hoped that I could protect you from the flames if I wrapped you good enough, part of me didn’t want to wrap you at all, let nature decide your fate. I wrapped you and then I prayed to you, and I kissed your forehead and then I had to wipe my tears off your cheeks and sit down because my legs were shaking and I couldn’t feel my chest._

_I would’ve been fine with doing anything at that moment, anything but putting your body on that fire. Burning you was the most unnatural thing I’ve ever done. I don’t know why. I’ve burned people before, I’ve burned friends before. But this wasn’t like that. And ever since I inhaled the smoke coming off of your body, I’ve felt poisoned. It doesn’t wash off. Alcohol is no escape, either._

_I’m trying to go on but I don’t really know why. I can’t do anything without thinking about it, thinking about you._

_I know you would’ve been able to say something wise and I would’ve felt better. You would’ve put your hand on my shoulder (only the left one, yes, I’ve noticed), and Cas, goddamnit Cas, you have no idea how much I need that now._

_I need you._

_I’ve said it before, but it’s getting worse every damn minute._

_I love you._

_I was a coward for not saying it back that one time. I was a coward for never saying it. And now it’s too late, and you’ll never know. I don’t know if I can live with that._

_I miss you._

_Cas, I may or may not have fallen in love with you a little bit. Maybe a whole lotta bit. Remember the picture I insisted was wrong because my eyes were closed? I lied. It’s next to me right now and I keep looking at it because I’m so obviously stupidly in love with you and you’re smiling, so I kept it for myself._

_Doesn't matter anymore, does it?_

_It’s 2 AM, the world is ending, and I’m writing a letter to a dead man._

_I think I’ll be meeting with Billy soon. Here, I’m holding Sammy back from all the things he could be. And God, I want to see you, I want to see you so bad. I’m sorry for hurting you—but I’ll make it up to you someday. I’ll see you soon._

_Love,_

_Dean._

Cas is crying. His whole body shakes, the letter unsteady in his hand, the picture in the other. Sam comes running inside, sees the mess on the floor and wants to ask— instead, he kneels with Cas and hugs him, and Cas falls into it, the letter still in his hands. 

_“_ What is going on?” Sam asks, fear in his voice.

Cas knows Sam doesn’t understand, doesn’t _know._ He pulls away and gives Sam the picture, his own vision blurred.

“We need to find him.” He breathes as Sam looks at the picture. “He needs to come home.”


End file.
